Audience of One

People always say that the eyes are the window to the soul. Well, so is music. Today, I discovered that when I play my instrument, the cello, it projects my heart. If I’m feeling as happy and free as a lark, my performance will indicate thusly. Likewise, if I am feeling somber, woeful or ever the slightest bit distracted, my music will tell. Music does not lie. People will always be able to tell how you feel from your eyes, because truth be told,you can’t control the eyes. And music like eyes are the meddling, tattle-tale of a younger sister who will always give you away.

Today, sitting in the large church before two hundred sets of eyes, ready to play my cello piece, I felt myself hesitate just before my cue. It wasn’t nerves, rather that I was distracted. The most pressing being the fact that of all two hundred eyes, not one of them belonged to a fan of mine. This usually doesn’t bother me as it is rare for anyone to do more than merely drop me off at my recital or sporting event. Receiving praise from everyone else’s parent or friend is common place for me, but I digress. Point being, I was distracted which was inevitably echoed off the walls. Because of the unfocused state of my heart, a mere eighty percent of the song was played properly; the rest forcibly improvised or just dropped all together.

The heaviness of my heart threw my low bow to the applauding audience off balance. My instructor pulled me to the side. He knew something was wrong. No, he hadn’t seen my eyes. He knew, because like I said, eyes and music are one in the same. They speak volumes against your efforts to conceal your heart, and today, my cello made a loud and unsympathetic testimony. He asked me where I was because it was apparent to him that I wasn’t in the music. I deemed it inappropriate to share with him my unforeseen desire to have that awkward and ever so slightly embarrassing mother with the obsolete video camera in the very back standing on the folding chair, so I shrugged it off. And how could I tell my family, who I can’t even rally for a dinner of tuna noodle casserole, that I would have given my right arm for the dad who produced a thunderous whistle to be mine, even if just for that moment.   Why the sudden hunger for a fan or ally struck me like a bolt of lightning today, may never be known. Moreover, said hunger may never be fed. Perhaps its that no work of mine is ever deemed worthy of a crowd. Then again, I didn’t ask for a battalion. Just a pair of eyes to seek out in the crowd.

After coming home, I readied my self to once more play the cello. My heart echoed even louder off of the bare walls of my living room than they had earlier at the church. But this time, there was no audience with their conciliatory applause. Today, which was all to reminiscent of previous lacrosse seasons and art shows had convinced me that covering myself in silver body paint and playing on the street corners on Saturday nights did not sound so terrible. I would again have the flattery an audience. But for now, if no one wishes to listen, I shall play for my self. I shall selfishly indulge myself by playing whatever I want, whenever I want, however I want until. Making rich music for my audience of one.